Swords Around the Throne (5 page)

The punishments should have been much greater, Castus knew. Two men from his own century were invalided with broken limbs, and many of the others had sprains and bruises. The cohort as a whole was down four fighting men, and the Second Legion looked to have suffered similarly. There should have been floggings at the very least for what had happened. Brawling in public with a fellow officer could have cost Castus his rank, even his life – he had risked all that for a moment's rage, and the thought sickened him. But Jovianus had a duty to get his detachments to the army muster; he had lost men and he had lost time, and could not afford to lose more of either.

‘Soldiers,' he cried, turning from the smoking altar. ‘Last night you disgraced the honour of your legions. The emperor has summoned you to join his campaign against the barbarians. Instead, you have turned your anger upon each other. What use does the emperor have for men who cannot control themselves? Men without discipline? Such men are not soldiers, but savages.'

He paced down the lines, tapping the ground before him with his staff. A small man with a well-groomed appearance, but his authority was palpable and his anger unfeigned. He halted at the centre of the line. To one side of him Castus stood at attention, hands clasped at his belt. To the other, Urbicus of the Second Legion held the same stance.

‘We have made a sacrifice,' Jovianus called out, ‘to the divine spirits of Concordia and Disciplina, the presiding goddesses of the parade ground. May they restore to us the true spirit of soldiers! May they restore the brotherhood of the legions, and allow you to redeem your courage in the purity of battle!'

He gestured with his stick, and Castus took four long steps forward. Urbicus marched out to meet him. Castus could still feel the smart of his cut ear, the bruise on his temple, but he was glad to see that the other man showed more obvious marks of violence.

‘Clasp hands in good faith,' Jovianus ordered.

Castus took a breath, then stuck out his hand. Urbicus grasped it. A squeeze of hard bone and muscle.

‘Let all strife end,' Jovianus called out, ‘and the order of the legions prevail!'

The two centurions stepped close, shoulder against shoulder, and embraced.

In his wounded ear, Castus heard the older man's breathing hiss.

‘
If I meet you on the battlefield, you're a dead man
.'

On the evening of the twelfth day after leaving the coast, the men of the marching detachments came in sight of the walls of Colonia Agrippina, the great fortress city on the banks of the Rhine. The massive drum towers of the fortifications, with their decorative brickwork glowing in the low sun, were a welcome sight. The troops had marched hard since leaving Bagacum, making up for the day they had lost, but Jovianus led them away to the north of the city and on down the river another three miles to the camp ground of the field army. It was almost dark by the time the weary legionaries of VI Victrix raised their tents in the lines allotted to them.

For Castus, the end of the march was a relief. The tensions and resentment left by the riot at Bagacum had not eased, and his mood had been black for days afterwards. No matter that he was provoked, that Urbicus had struck first, no matter that he was defending his men. He had lost control of himself; he had been goaded, and had given in to blind rage – the same goading, the same rage had caused him to attack his father once. Castus had believed he had murdered the old man, and fled to join the legions. Now, with a similar uncontrolled outburst, he had almost undone all that his career in the army had given him. Some of his men had tried to thank him for coming to their aid, or to congratulate him, and he had snarled them into silence. He was not proud of his actions. He had been careful to avoid centurion Urbicus of the Second Legion too.

But the following dawn brought a sight to gladden the heart. Bright sun, a breeze driving off the last of the river mist that rose from the damp turf, and, all around, the field army of the emperor mustered for a new campaign. Thousands of leather tents in regular rows, horse lines and entrenchments, the shout of the sentries, the call of the trumpets from the command enclosure. Here, Castus knew, was the antidote to his foul mood. Here, and in the warfare to come.

By mid-morning the troops were assembled on the broad, level field beyond the camp ground. The British detachments had been the last to arrive at the muster, and joined similar detachments from each of the Rhine legions: I Minervia and XXX Ulpia Victrix, VIII Augusta and XXII Primigenia, I Martia and I Flavia Gallicana. Together they fielded almost five thousand heavy infantry, brigaded together with the irregular
numeri
of
auxilia
: the Batavi and Mattiaci, Frisiavones and Menapii, the Tungrian and Nervian archers. With the cavalry troopers of Equites Promoti, Mauri, Dalmati and Primo Sagittarii, the army mustered over ten thousand strong.

In the breeze the draco banners streamed against the clean-washed sky. From his position in the ranks with his men, Castus gazed along the lines of brightly painted shields, the glinting and glimmering of mail and scale armour, burnished helmets, honed spearheads. Trumpets rang out the imperial salute, and the assembled troops began throwing up their arms and cheering in acclamation. Castus cheered with them, feeling the lingering remorse and anxiety punching out of him with every breath.

‘
Imperator Augustus! Imperator Augustus! Imperator Augustus!
'

The emperor rode onto the muster ground at the head of his mounted bodyguard of Comites and Equites Scutarii, followed by his senior officers and the officials of the imperial household. Castus had not seen Constantine for nearly two years, ever since the strange and intoxicating days in Eboracum when the emperor had first been acclaimed by the troops after his father's death. Back then, it had been hard to think of him as more than the tribune he had been. Now, Castus thought, Constantine looked in every way an emperor.

He rode slowly, on a powerful grey warhorse. His cuirass was gilded, glowing in the sun, and his purple cloak was woven with gold. A soldier rode behind him carrying his helmet, gold set with gemstones and decked with peacock-feather plumes. Constantine sat stiff in the saddle, barely moving his head to acknowledge the cheers as he rode between the ranks of his troops. His face looked flushed, raw-boned, his eyes deep-set.

Castus stared at the emperor as he passed, almost willing him to turn and see him there in the ranks. He remembered a previous meeting, back in the basilica of the headquarters in Eboracum. Constantine had recognised him then; would he know him again? Impossible, surely. But, even knowing all that he did about the murky background to the imperial accession, Castus was struck with a sense of awe. Emperors, he had been taught to believe, were like gods on earth. And Constantine had certainly come to appear like a god.

The imperial party reached the tribunal at the heart of the muster ground. Castus peered over the heads of his men, but could see little of the rituals that followed. Smoke rose from the altars, together with sounds of discordant trumpeting to deter evil spirits as the pig, sheep and bull were sacrificed to the gods of Rome. The omens were proclaimed as favourable, and then the standards were carried forward to the altar, to be anointed with the blood of the victims.

As he watched, craning his neck, Castus picked out another figure among the imperial party. A very large man, powerfully built, but ageing. He stood to one side, bare-headed, with a white and gold cloak drawn around him. His features were heavy, and he wore a thick dark beard, greying around the jowls. Castus had never seen him before, but he appeared somehow familiar. He noticed the way that the men around him, even the high officials, appeared to defer to him, or perhaps draw back from him slightly. A nimbus of stern authority surrounded him.

Now the emperor's voice rolled out across the muster ground. The breeze stole away the words, but the troops did not need to hear them – they would learn soon enough what was expected of them. When the address was done the cheering commenced once more, and the last cries were still ringing across the churned turf as the imperial party mounted up and rode back towards the comforts of the city.

‘Two days from now,' the tribune Jovianus announced, ‘our emperor will complete the bridge of boats across the Rhine and lead his field army against the Bructeri, the last of the Frankish tribes to remain in defiance of Rome. The intention is not only to punish them for daring to raid our provinces but to demonstrate the power of Roman arms to strike deeply into their lands, and break their power utterly.'

Twelve men sat before him on folding stools; others stood at the rear of the tent: centurions, and some of the commanders of the auxilia units. Castus was glad to see there was no sign of Urbicus or the other Second Legion men. Jovianus was standing, his staff clasped behind his back. He looked well bathed, his hair freshly dressed, and he wore a clean white tunic embellished with silver.

‘The barbarians will not be surprised at our coming,' he went on. ‘They have expected Roman vengeance for over a year now, and their scouts are watching from the eastern bank of the river. They will already have seen the preparations for the bridge of boats, and will be assembling to resist us and ambush our vanguard troops as they cross. But what
will
surprise them is the speed and strength of our attack – they are always accustomed to flee at the first onslaught, and take shelter in their tangled forests, but, like a bolt of lightning, we will outpace them and destroy them!'

The tribune paused to allow his audience to digest what he had said. He clearly had aspirations, Castus reflected, to higher command – his style of speech suggested it. Through the open tent-flap came the late-afternoon sun and the sounds of camp life: men laughing as they gathered wood or cleaned weapons and equipment; lowing cattle; the distant neighing of horses from the cavalry lines. The familiar scent of the cooking fires too. Castus stared at the leather wall of the tent, as if he might be able to see through it. His empty stomach grunted and roiled.

‘To secure the bridgehead, therefore,' Jovianus went on, ‘five hundred men of the Sixth Victrix and First Flavia Gallicana Legions, together with detachments of the Batavi and Mattiaci auxilia, will cross the river in small boats tomorrow night, three miles downstream. You will then make your way back southwards to the bridging area, and drive off any enemy force that you meet.'

A stir of muffled comments passed between the assembled officers. Castus saw the scepticism in their faces. They were veteran soldiers, and knew all too well the hazards of a river crossing, a march and an assault by night. Jovianus twitched his jaw, waiting for silence, then broke in, raising his voice slightly.

‘The task will not be easy! Absolute discipline must be observed. The crossing must be accomplished in total silence, to avoid alerting the barbarian scouts to our stratagem. Once on the far bank of the river, the boat parties must assemble, maintain formation, and reach the enemy positions before dawn. Keep the river directly to your right and you will not stray. The night should be clear, so you will have the stars to guide you.'

‘
And the moon to guide the Frankish scouts to us
,' Valens whispered. Jovianus paused a moment, as if daring anyone else to comment, then went on.

‘Your men will be lightly equipped, without armour, to move fast and silently. In order to sow confusion and terror among the barbarians, each century will move as a separate unit. In this way, you will attack the enemy at many points simultaneously, and make them believe that the entire Roman army has beset them. When all enemy forces have been routed from the far side of the river, you will signal using trumpets, then the engineers will complete the construction of the bridge and the army will commence crossing at first light.'

Jovianus squared his shoulders, rocked back on his heels and inhaled through his nose, obviously very pleased with the plan. As if, Castus thought, he had devised it himself. Perhaps he had?

‘Remember!' the tribune declared. ‘The success of our assault depends on you, and your men. Our emperor is depending on you. Do not give the barbarians a chance to escape your swords, or to maintain their position on the river. Strike fast, with discipline and accuracy, like true Roman soldiers, and with the aid of the gods you will prevail!'

The river appeared peaceful that evening, the broad expanse of water like burnished iron in the last of the sun. Like a well-forged sword blade, Castus thought as he watched the surface swirled and patterned by the deep, muscular currents beneath. The far bank was hazy, trees and thick undergrowth, no sign of human life at all. And in the distance wooded hills ranged across the horizon, smoky green and purple in the coming dusk.

‘How wide, do you reckon?'

‘Over two stades,' Valens said. ‘Maybe near three. You could swim it, but I wouldn't recommend it. That current's slow, but it's strong.'

They were on the riverbank, a meadow of long grass running down to the trees and high thick reeds at the water's edge. Valens bent to rub at the ears of his dog. He had found the lean grey creature in Bagacum and it had followed him from the town and all along the route of the march. Castus was wary of it: the animal looked mangy and half-wild, and he distrusted dogs.

Out in the middle of the river, a hulk of floating timber cruised slowly downstream – an entire tree, it looked like, mostly submerged, rotted black. Not something to run into at night, Castus thought, in a small boat.

‘What do you know about the Bructeri?' he asked. Valens had served in one of the Rhine legions before his promotion. His friend squatted beside his dog, chewing on an apple and squinting across at the barbarian shore.

‘They're Franks,' he said. ‘Most Franks live further downstream, in the marshes and the plains, but the Bructeri live in the hills and river valleys. Fiercest of them all, so I've heard. Their priests can work magic. They sacrifice their prisoners to dark gods, eat some of them... Keen archers, and they use poison on their arrows...'